Page 61 of Ice Princesses
Cecilia raises an eyebrow. “So we’re basing this evening on Nina’s hype?”
“That’s generally how my life operates, to be honest,” I reply.
She huffs a quiet laugh.
“C’mon. I heard he’s very competitive, terrible at losing. I suspect you’ll enjoy arguing with him.”
That earns me a full glance now. Evaluating.
“Is this a trap?” she asks.
“No,” I say honestly. “It’s me asking you to come on a date with me somewhere that isn’t a rink.”
Silence settles between us, not tense, just thoughtful.
“I don’t know anyone there,” she says finally.
“You know me.”
I stand, walking around the desk slowly enoughthat she can see every step. I don’t touch her or crowd her. I just exist closer.
“It’s one night,” I continue. “You can hate it. You can mock the scoring system and the antiquated style, and call it a stupid sport if you want. Question its athletic legitimacy. I’ll drive you back home after.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”
Cecilia tilts her chin up automatically, like she already knows what I’m about to do.
I lean down and kiss her—soft, slow, unhurried. Not rushed and just enough to make the air between us feel charged and private, even with the office door still open behind us.
Her hand comes up to rest lightly at my wrist, steadying rather than stopping me.
When I pull back, her eyes stay on my mouth for a second longer than necessary.
“You’re dangerous, Princess,” she says quietly.
“Probably.”
A small pause.
“What time?” she asks.
The local curling club smells exactly like the rink—that same sharp, mineral cold of real ice and metal—but underneath, there’s something my sport would never allow. Beer soaked into old wood. Fried food lingering in the air. A faint sweetness from spilled cider that’s been mopped but not erased.The ice is still there, clean and bright, but it shares space with something warmer, looser.
Fun.
Cecilia stops just inside the entrance and surveys the room with the focused stillness she usually reserves for competition venues. Her warm brown eyes move across the ice sheets, the painted circles, the clusters of people in bright jackets holding brooms and murmuring against each other.
“This,” she says slowly, “is what you Americans do for fun?” Cecilia stays close to me without realizing. Or maybe she does.
I grin. “You haven’t seen the brooms yet.”
She exhales through her nose, unimpressed but curious. “I’ve never been to a curling club in my life.”
“That sounds so dramatic.”
“It’s not,” she replies. “The Games I went to, our events overlapped with curling. I was never able to see the matches live.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the ice. “This is my first time in the wild.”
Cecilia steps farther inside, the cold air hitting us properly now. Her nose wrinkles lightly.
